


Waterloo (knowing my fate is to be with u)

by 400_badrequest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Peter Hale, Angst, Blood and Injury, Cold Weather, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Explicit Language, Frostbite, Fuck Canon, Good Peter Hale, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hospitals, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Serious Injuries, Sheriff Stilinski Knows About Werewolves, Sick Stiles Stilinski, That will make sense later, Whump, ambiguous medical terminology, i say fuck a lot, let derek say fuck 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/400_badrequest/pseuds/400_badrequest
Summary: Wherein a mistake on Stiles' part leads to the true nature of some people to be revealed.Friends are made and lost, and someone unexpected helps Stiles pick up the pieces.(Also, what the fuck is Peter's deal?)
Relationships: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale & Sheriff Stilinski, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Erica Reyes & Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey & Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski & Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Jackson Whittemore, Stiles Stilinski & The Hale Pack, Vernon Boyd & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 34
Kudos: 197





	1. at waterloo napoleon did surrender

**Author's Note:**

> I basically said fuck canon. As much as I would’ve liked to do some angst about the Nogitsune, I don’t feel like it would’ve fit in this fic. Also, I like Allison. I guess this is set somewhere in season 3? So that makes them all around 16-17? Stiles is going to be 17. God, the timeline for this show is so fucked, fuck u, Jeff. Which makes Derek 22-23 btw. Also, I didn’t even realise that the age of consent of my country was low in comparison to the US.

It was supposed to be a Yuki-onna.

It was _supposed_ to be a dead woman that could be tricked with stories of love and handsome men into leaving and forgiveness, but _no_ , he was wrong. And now? Now, everything was fucking _bad_.

In addition to this crucial information, there’s something else that Stiles learnt today. Snow, when falling, doesn’t sound like anything. Not meaning a snow storm, because that contains the word _storm_ , because storms are loud but just… snow. Like soft flurries with a light breeze. It’s nice to know that the romantics were very wrong, and he can die knowing that he was right about something. A pained wheeze passed out of his frozen lips, loud and watery. The blood on the mangled hunk of flesh that could’ve once been called a thigh had frozen before it had clot. The dirty snow was streaked dark with red as Stiles dragged himself forward, arms trembling. He couldn’t feel his fucking fingers. 

There are 5 stages to hypothermia. He remembers his mom, the winter before her was forced to stay in the hospital, the last one before she died, sitting rugged up inside with a tiny teeny bopper him, explaining that he was in the first stage. “There are 5 stages, Mica,” She had said, running a warm hand over his head. “The first is shivering and reduced circulation, the second is slowed breathing, a weak pulse, confusion, irritability and sleepiness. The third and fourth are little to no pulse and breathing. Sometimes people think they’re getting hot and start taking their clothes off!” He’d giggled at that. “Then, some people go to sleep, and never wake up.” Little him had listened intently, soaking the information up like pancakes in syrup. “Now kochanie, are you feeling irritable?” She’d bopped him on the nose, setting him off giggling again, forgetting all about how cold and miserable he’d been after running around in the winter rain. 

The skin of his cheek began to stick to the icy ground immediately as he lost the strength in his arms. Stiles had stopped shivering a while ago, and time seemed to be slipping through his fingers. 

It was his fault. All his goddamned fault. The pack was going to die bloody deaths and Derek would hate him because Stiles couldn’t even do his stupid job as pack adjacent researcher properly.

Fucking _Derek._

With his stupid scruff and pretty grey-green eyes and worn in leather jackets. And the weird eyebrow language that Stiles was pretty sure that only he (and maybe Peter) could read. God, _fuck_ , and his dumb bunny teeth that Stiles only ever got to see when he was blessed with Derek’s occasional smiles when the betas did something particularly endearing. The smile that had started to be aimed at him, at the rare occurrence that he did something right. 

Derek who hated him because he was fragile and disobedient. Derek who hated him because he could never do anything right and was now going to get his new pack killed. Derek who was never going to know that he deserved the _world_ , because he cared so much. Because he looked after the betas and forgave them so easily, even though his life had basically been a dumpster fire full of betrayal. And Stiles just knows that he would be the only person to ever tell him, because no one even seemed to _think_ that Derek needed anything. And now? Now nobody would, because he was going to _die_ . Because Stiles was just useless, just _“skinny, defenceless Stiles”_ , stupid moronic _friendless_ Stiles. 

Not even pack adjacent. 

His eyes welled up, his vision blurring the world into white and grey. Slowly, Stiles relaxed his body, the final tremors of the cold shaking through him. A wave of exhaustion crashed gently over him, soaking deeper than the cold. He just… just wanted to sleep. Stiles was only going to close his eyes for a second. Just a short nap. The pack would find him. 

_“Then, some people go to sleep, and never wake up.”_

This was going to kill his dad.

  
  
\---  
  
  
  


He wakes to the smell of antibacterial wipes and stiff linen.

“Da’?” His throat felt thick and dry at the same time, lips heavy and uncooperative. Tears welled in his crusty eyes, his lungs rattling with a weak coughing fit. A straw was placed between his lips, the cool water soothing the ache in his throat.

“No talking, son.” his Dad’s face swum into his vision, the skin around his eyes creased tightly with worry. “I’m going to grab Melissa, alright? Just sit tight.” Stiles fumbled to get his hands above the heavy blankets, latching on tightly to the sheriff’s uniform.

“Da’ ’m sorry-” He started, before his voice gave out. Gently, his dad eased him back into the bed, tucking the blankets back in around him.

“It’s alright Stiles, just stay down, okay? I’ll be right back.” A kiss ghosted his brow, before the sheriff disappeared out the door.

The room was silent aside from the distant beeping of the heart monitor. Stiles shifted slightly, craning his head to look at the multiple IVs of antibiotics and blood dripping into this body. A small blue box sat connected to the IV, dials and buttons covering its face. _Opioid dispenser_ , his brain supplied unhelpfully. _Just like your mother_.

_Now is_ not _the time_ , Stiles thought vehemently, trying hard to push the image of how rumpled his dad had looked, how dark and heavy the circles under his eyes had hung. Now was not the time for guilt. With the aid of the control remote, Stiles slowly eased his body into a slightly more upright position. His wrapped fingers shook, faint tremors running up his hands, as he stared nervously at the blanket draped over his thigh. If his memory serves him right, it should be completely minced. He gripped the blanket. _Like ripping off a bandaid,_ he thought, as he silently counted down.

Three.

Two.

….One and a half.

One and a quarter.

Maybe he should just wait for Ms. McCall. That would probably be the sensible thing to do.

One!

Flinging the blanket to the side, Stiles is met with mild disappointment. His leg was wrapped tightly in thick gauze and bandages, all the way down to the bottom of his knee, obscuring the injury from sight. No gorey injury for him then. Sighing in both relief and mild disappointment, he picks at the tape on his fingers.

“Stiles!” A frazzled looking Ms. McCall flings open the door, his dad in tow. Hurrying over to his bedside, she wrapped him tightly in a warm motherly hug. 

“Hey Ms. McCall,” Stiles mumbled into her curly hair. “How you doin’?”

“How am _I_ doing? Stiles, honey, you’re the injured one.” She replied exasperatedly, pulling up the sheets and straightening out his IV, bustling around the room. 

“Well, then how am _I_ doin’, doc? What’s my diagnosis? My prognosis?” Accepting the cup of water from his dad with a quiet thanks, he added cheekily, “Will I ever dance pointe again?”

Sighing, the nurse pulled the clipboard off the front of tapping it lightly against the bed frame. 

“Well, you definitely won’t be playing lacrosse for a while.” Her eyebrows drew in, lips screwed tight with worry. “Your hands should be fine, seeing as it was mainly frostnip. A few bruised and fractured ribs. A major artery was ripped, and they had to fix the break in your femur with pins.” 

“Holy shit, I broke my _femur?!_ ” Stiles yelped. “I thought that was basically impossible!” 

“You always were the exception, son.” The Sheriff huffed fondly, the tired lines of his face watching Stiles closely. 

“So, how long ‘til I can leave?” 

“Well, you’ve already been here for two days-” Stiles’ eyebrows shot up in shock.

“Two days?! I’ve been here for _two days?!_ I-”

“Stiles, are you going to let me finish?” Nodding sheepishly, he waved for her to go on. “Right. You’ll most likely be here for another 3 to 5 days. But, you’ll need to be off school for at least 4 weeks. Then there’ll be physical therapy.”

“A month off school? Seriously?” Shit, he was totally going to miss midterms. He couldn’t afford to screw up his GPA! With all the stupid supernatural shit going on in his life, there was no way in hell he could afford an absence that long. Though, it would definitely give him more time for research. 

Wait. 

Research.

“Shit!” Stiles jackknifed into a sitting position. “Shit, is everyone okay? Is the pack okay? I need to know, Melissa, _fuck_ I got them killed didn’t I-” His eyes darted around the room in a panic, his breathing coming short and stuttered, before landing on his dad who was suddenly pulling him into a tight hug. 

“Stiles I need you to take a deep breath, okay? Everyone’s fine, they’re just at school. You need to breathe with me, son, come on.” Breathing shakily in, Stiles squeezed his head with his down into the crook of his father’s shoulder. “That’s it. You’re doing good, son.” A gentle hand rubbed loose circles in between his shoulder blades and up his neck, the tension slowly bleeding from his body. 

After some time, Stiles’ breathing evened out and the shaking eased. Exhaustion hit him like a baseball bat to the face. The peeling tape on his fingers scraped across his dad’s back. Keeping his face tucked securely into the tan uniform, he quietly mumbled, “Are you sure everyone’s okay?”

“I’m sure.” Gently, the Sheriff lowered his head on the pillow. “I think this has been more than enough excitement for one day.” For the second time today, his dad tucked him in. “You're going to get some rest now, okay? You can see the pack once you wake up.”

Oh, _joy_. Like that wasn’t going to go terribly.


	2. and i have met my destiny in quite a similar way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey sorry if u got a bunch of notifications for this fic, I was having issues with uploading chapters.

### CHAPTER 2: and I have met my destiny in quite a similar way

“Ow.” Stiles let out a sharp grunt, as Erica came flying into him. 

“Batman! You’re awake!” 

The day after his first bout of lucidity is spent surrounded by the majority of the pack. Ah, the sweet bliss that is the weekend. Everyone piles messily into the room, strewn over the handful of chairs and across the cot, rotating in and out over the period of a few hours. 

Everyone except one very specific Alpha. 

Turns out Stiles had been the only one injured, and that the pack had killed the creature shortly after they found him. Stiles is informed by an extremely miffed Lydia that he has been exempt from the midterms. 

“It’s totally unfair - I didn’t even get time off when I was found naked in the woods.” She’d tied a small silver ‘get well!’ balloon to the frame of his bed, currently perched neatly in one of the many occupied chairs around the room. For a horrifying moment, he thought that someone had told her about his, uh, balloon vigil when she was in hospital. Turns out she just found it cute. 

Go figure. 

The little table was littered with a mix of contraband lollies and homework from Harris, _that dick._ “Have you been given a prognosis for physical therapy yet?” Wincing slightly, Stiles eased himself out of Scott’s hug and into a seated position.

“Uh yeah, it’s… going to be a long road.” Rubbing the back of his head, he reached for the small notebook settled on the side table. “It’s probably going to have a while before I’m running around with you idiots.” A lance of pain darted up his side, a grunt leaving his mouth as he placed it open in her perfectly manicured hand. Huh, purple nails. Very nice. As she flipped through the book, her eyebrows slowly began to climb.

“School sucks without you,” Scott mumbled into Stiles’ hip, arms still encircled around him as he started to leech the pain. It was no surprise that Scott was suffering - Stiles could count on one hand the amount of times they’d been apart for more than 24 hours since his mom died. Once, when they were in middle school, the Sheriff got a call from school stating that Stiles had disappeared during recess. Melissa and John had found him feeding a slightly less miserable and chickenpox riddled Scott, feeding him Cheetos with chopsticks. 

“I know buddy. It’s definitely no better here.” Stiles patted his sad puppy face in solidarity. 

“He’s not wrong,” Isaac piped up, sitting in the corner with notebooks piled next to an empty pizza box that the wolves had taunted Stiles with. “Econ is surprisingly boring without your… _tasteful_ commentary.”

“Why thank you, Isaac, for such an _insightful_ take. I really do appreciate it.” Stiles snarked back. Erica snorted. 

“Lunch feels weird without you, boy wonder. It’s no fun without our little human.” She purred from the comfort of Boyd’s arms.

“Hey, I’m not just a little human, you ass! Anyway, I’m the _Detective_ , not boy wonder, girl blunder.”

“Says the idiot who looks like he went through a meat grinder.”

“You really think that _Batman_ didn’t ever get his ass beat? I literally do like _all_ our research and solve most of our problems. Y’know, like the Detective? If anyone’s the boy blunder, it’s Scott!”

“Hey!”

“Sorry Scotty. But you know I’m right.”

“You’re not doing any research for a while, Stiles.” Lydia waved the book in his face. “I’ll be taking it from here. Derek’s orders.” Stiles’ stomach dropped out. No research? Was this Derek’s way of telling him to stay the hell out of pack business? That he fucked up, so he’s no longer useful. 

“Stiles? Buddy, you good?” Scott lifted his head off Stiles’ hip. 

“I…” The reassurance died in his throat. No he definitely was _not good,_ Scott! He was just getting kicked out of a pack he wasn’t ever actually part of! 

But.

There was a chance that Derek would let him stick around, right? An extra set of eyes was always helpful! And they only had three cars between them, excluding Roscoe. Well, technically four. But Allison could only be around sometimes, Scott only had a car like thirty percent of the time, which totalled to one car and Jackson was a dick. So two cars! Kinda! And it would be super awkward is Derek had to talk to Stiles’ dad right? Oh! And it wasn’t like Derek could kick him out of their friendship group - Danny didn’t know and he hung out with them. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

It would be fine, right? It’s not like he was completely replaceable. 

\----

  
  


Stiles hates hospitals. It’s only fair - he had to watch his mother slowly waste away in one, and has spent countless winters visiting Scott. Sure, Ms. McCall is fantastic but it’s been _four days_ and he was beginning to go slightly insane, alright?! Everyone had to go to school and dad had work and Derek _still hadn’t shown up._

“Hospitals are rather tedious, aren’t they?”  
  


“Jesus fucking--!” Flailing, Stiles turns to face the speaker. “Peter, what the _fuck_ , it’s after visiting hours!” 

Peter sits draped on the chair closest to the window, moonlight catching the sliver of his hair. The prognosis book sits open on his palm, as he slowly flicks through it. “I personally think that they’re too drab. White walls, white sheets… not quite style.”

“How the hell did you get in?”

“Did you forget that I’m a werewolf? Or are you also suffering from short term memory loss?” 

“Ohhkay,” Stiles began to lean away from Peter, backing up against the headboard. “Then what do you want?” Sighing, Peter closed the notebook with a snap, before rising from the chair and folding into the one next to the bed. 

“Do I really need a reason to visit?” Narrowing his eyes, Stiles shifted the blanket higher. 

“Uh, obviously, you creeper.” 

“Well, did you really think that Alpha dearest would let you be without a guard?” Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Peter stretched out a hand. “Now give me your hand.”

Derek sent Peter to be his guard? What about the other nights? Jesus Christ, there’d been someone watching him sleep every night!

“Why the hell doesn’t he guard me himself?” Stiles questioned. Peter querked an eyebrow at him, as if to say _really Stiles?_ “Okay yes, I fucked up and almost got everyone killed, but it’s not like he has to deal with me when I’m asleep.” 

“And to think I thought you were smart.” Stiles let out an indignant squawk. Peter sighed again, before raising a hand to silence him. “No, that’s enough. Give me your hand.” 

“Since when have you been nice, Creeperwolf? And _parental?_ ” Suspicion coloured the boy's face, as he placed a cautious hand in Peter’s. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know. You’re off heavy pain medication, aren’t you?” Black lines crept up the side of his arm, as the pain seeped out of Stiles’ body, leaving him limp and sleepy. “Now sleep.”

As the world began to slip from a grey haze and into black, a gentle hand swept over Stiles hair, sinking him deeper into a dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter!! If ur expecting peter to be evil ur gonna be thoroughly disappointed


	3. the history book on the shelf/ is always repeating itself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bonding! not much plot :/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look @ me, uploading two days in a row!!

###  CHAPTER 3: the history book on the shelf/ is always repeating itself

Physical therapy sucked. It had been three weeks since Peter had first visited, and about four since Stiles had become mincemeat. 

(And since he last saw Derek.)

He’d graduated from fumbling to stand, and was now being forced to pull himself from one end of the parallel bars to another as his main exercise. The massages were painful as fuck, and he was often left sweaty and in tears after his allocated hour. 

It wasn’t as if he wasn’t making progress - hell, his doctors were predicting that his physical therapy would only be four months instead of six. But he felt stagnant. Left behind. The pack had slowly stopped visiting at a high frequency, except for the further in between visits from Scott and rather surprisingly, Peter. Peter had been surprisingly patient with Stiles’ distrust, and had taken to being around when his father wasn’t. Though it was not unwelcome, Stiles was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Stiles lay boneless and recently showered, damp hair flopped on his forehead. He’d flushed the Vicodin down the toilet - it reminded him too much of how hazy his mother had been when she’d been lucid in her days. So now a dull pain sat deep in the muscles of his injured leg, as he listened to the cruiser pull out of the driveway.

“Crime stops for no man.” Stiles mumbled, rolling onto his stomach. The blue covers were incredibly soft - he was pretty sure they were a gift from Jackson. He’d bitched and whined endlessly when he first set foot in Stiles’ room, saying that he had no taste, which, uh  _ rude.  _ It’s not like they were all made of money. Though it had been an oddly touching gift. 

“There never is rest for the wicked, is there.” 

“Hi Peter.” It was oddly concerning how calm Stiles felt with the spontaneous and unannounced visits from a previously insane mass murderer. “Hey, are you a mass murderer or serial killer? Because you killed like 6 people. I think? You killed a lot of people.” 

“I do believe there is a difference between the two, Stiles.” At some point, Peter had managed to get Stiles on his back and under the covers. A late afternoon sun filtered through the shuttered curtains, the overhead light switched off. Peter sat reclined on the desk chair, the physical therapy book in hand. “And it was seven. You seem to be progressing incredibly well with your PT, Stiles.”

“I’m pretty sure the difference between a serial killer and a mass murderer is cool off time? And the amount of people killed. Right? Like, you had a cool off period. And murdered people in a variety of places. It was like ‘Find a Body’, fun for the whole family! Or pack?” Stiles lifted his head, attempting to get a good look at the werewolf. “And I’m pretty sure Kate was a mass murderer. She killed like 11 people in one go. That’s definitely mass murder.” Groaning, he flopped aggressively back into the sheets. “Fuck, I don’t even  _ know _ . My brain feels like mush. I’m pretty sure my brain isn’t supposed to feel like mush after walking around a whole bunch.” 

“Well, I am legally dead so I don’t suppose it matters.”

“I always forget about that. Even though I was the one who set you on fire. Fun times. Hey, can you pain drain me?” the telltale sound of a book being snap shut echoed through the room. 

“I thought you were on painkillers.”

“Well yeah, I  _ was _ ,” Stiles flops an arm in Peter’s general direction, in a feeble attempt to get him to speed up. “Shouldn’t you be able to smell it anyway? But I don’t like pain medication, y’know? Makes me feel gross.” A gentle hand pushes under Stiles’ duvet, wrapping around the ankle of his injured leg. “Gah! Cold hands! Aren’t werewolves supposed to run hot or something? Jesus.” Shifting, Stiles pushes his ankle into Peter’s hand. A gentle stillness settled over the room, Stiles’ soft breathing the only noise. At some point, Peter picked up one of the smaller mythology books, flicking to interesting pages as the boy dozed. 

“It reminds me of my mom.” Peter lifted his eyes from the book, carefully watching Stiles. He was very pointedly staring at the ceiling, almost as if he was refusing to acknowledge that he wasn’t alone. A stilted silence began to stretch between them.

“...And why’s that, Stiles?”

“She uh, was on pain medication a lot towards the end you know? She was barely there, and it just… made it worse, I guess.” Stiles’ soft voice began to waver, the scent of misery laying thick over the room. “Do you know how she died?” Peter shook his head. “Right. Of course you don’t. It’s called frontotemporal dementia. FTD. Which is definitely not a word that an eight-year-old should know. She sort of... Just forgot everything. Slowly. But uh… that wasn’t the bad part. The worst part was that she-” A soft sob permeates through the room. 

“She died because I killed her.” 

Stiles' words sit heavy in the air, like the bang of a loaded gun.  _ Jesus Christ _ , Peter thinks quietly, his grip tightening slightly on the delicate ankle in his palm.

“...I’m sorry.” 

“Everyone is.”

The once peaceful quiet descended into a painful oppressive silence, more a void of noise than a purposeful rest. Peter itched to comfort the pup, to wrap him in a tight hug, just like he used to do with Cora. God, the two of them were so painfully alike, with their violent loyalty and lightning-quick silver tongues. Though Derek had always been the favourite of his sister’s children, Cora had always held a special place in his chest. Though he had few untainted memories before the fire, there was one in which Cora, sweet baby Cora, had managed to complete a horrendous prank - which rather painfully, involved copious amounts of glitter - on him without him feeling even an inkling of suspicion. He’d been so bewildered and proud that he’d bought the pup a new bike. 

“Her name was Olivia.” He started quietly. “She had been pregnant with our second - well, second two. They were going to be called Cordelia and Cameron.” His voice hitched on their names. “Our oldest was only three. His name was Romulus.”

Stiles froze under Peter’s grip. “...I’m sorry.”

A small grief-ridden smile graced Peter’s face. 

“They always are.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL I THOUGHT THIS WAS JUST GONNA BE A ONESHOT
> 
> H A H
> 
> anyway, I added a bit more room. don't be surprised if the chapter count keeps rising. I'll cap it at an absolute max of 10. if it still doesn't feel complete and yall want more, then Ill make it a series I guess? Im not good at small projects. I'm not planning on making this a massive project or anything bc then ill never finish it ahah
> 
> if there's anything you really want to see, or any particular interactions u want me to capitalise aside from Peter and Stiles, lemme know, kay? I just want yall to enjoy this as much as I'm enjoying writing this :))


	4. waterloo I was defeated, you won the war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised that I swapped perspectives like 1/2 way lmao
> 
> whoops

###  CHAPTER 4: waterloo I was defeated, you won the war

As usual, it begins with a series of bloody disappearances. 

“Twelve cats, seven dogs and now two children over a span of about a week.” 

The map of the Preserve on the far wall is decorated with a series of pins, each indicative of a disappearance. Stiles’ schoolbag lay kicked open on the floor, books and paper strewn across the ground. A pair of crutches lent on the side of the computer desk, as Stiles swivelled mindlessly in the wheeled chair. School was now doable, with crutches and medication. Homework had piled up, and though most his teachers had been understanding enough to back off, Harris had buried him in assignments.  _ Dick _ , Stiles thought violently, kicking away from the desk. Though Derek had banned him from research, Stiles had found himself delving into a series of odd disappearances that his dad had offhandedly mentioned, only to find a startling incline of missing pets. 

“They all seem to be clustered around the smaller runoff streams.” Peter mused from in front of the map, case file in hand. 

“Dude it super weird. All the major lakes are frozen over by now and the rivers are way too upstream for sirens.”

“Perhaps a kelpie?”

“Did you not hear the bit about frozen lakes?” Stiles snarked, fumbling for his phone. “I’m gonna send out a howl, see if the pack can do some recon for me.”

“A howl,” Peter muttered, letting out an undignified snort, before unpinning the map from the wall. “Am I driving you to the loft?” 

Stiles hummed in agreeance, typing away at the group chat. He’d mentioned his suspicions about rusalkas and kelpies and sirens to Chris earlier in the week, and they’d cross-referenced a few things with the bestiary. He’d sworn the bemused hunter to secrecy, as it was no secret that Derek would flip his shit if he found out that Stiles had disobeyed him. Not that he ever listened, but  _ that’s not the point _ . It was frustrating, almost to the point of tears, not having a purpose for the pack. Not being able to pull his weight, not being able to come to pack meetings. 

“To the loft, Jeeves!”

With a long-suffering but fond sigh, Peter made his way down the stairs, Stiles in tow. 

  
  


\----

“I fucking  _ hate  _ stairs.” Bent at the waist, Stiles lent heavily against the loft door, a faint sheen of sweat dampening his brow, with his half crutches at his feet. “I’m serious! I feel like my leg is about to  _ die _ , Scott.” 

“Dude, I did offer to carry you.”

“Like he needs to be emasculated anymore,” Jackson interjected.

“Hey!”

Some of the pack lay strewn around the sparsely furnished room, as the rest steadily trickled in. A faint buzz of apprehension hummed in his diaphragm, hands fidgeting while Peter lay the marked map out on the centre table. Derek was yet to show, and it was unlikely that he was anywhere else than upstairs. The Camaro had sat innocuously next to Peter’s car, and Stiles had felt an odd flush of excitement and fear at the idea of even seeing Derek again. It had been five weeks without a single sighting of the elusive Alpha. No late-night B&E’s, no awkward grocery store run-ins, nor a hide or hair. So it’s 100% understandable that Stiles’ brain shorts out a little bit when Derek walks down the stairs, barefoot and in sweats and a loose henley, hair damp from a shower. 

“Are you going to start, or did you get us together just to annoy me?”

“I- wha-” Stiles flounders into an upright stance, using the couch as an aid to the war table. “Right! So, we have a problem.” 

Stiles went through the motions of explaining the map, the markings and disappearances. How the found remains were violently mutilated and half-eaten, to the point where the children had been identified by dental records. Passing around copies of the official police report, he concluded his winding speech. His eyes had stayed on Derek, watching his face carefully for any indication of how the Alpha would react. His brow was furrowed as he read through the pages, mouth twisted with irritation. 

“These don’t look like any bite or claw marks I’ve ever seen,” Allison stated, leaning over Lydia’s shoulder to take a closer look at the photos. “I genuinely can’t think of anything that would kill like this.”

“Very astute, Miss Argent,” Peter said from the stairs. “Most creatures either eat a specific organ or the entire body. They aren’t often this wasteful.”

“Well, my money’s on a siren. Those mutilate bodies and eat people, right?” Jackson stated. Peter looked at him in surprise and intrigue, a single eyebrow raised. “What? It’s not like I don’t read.” the beta grumbled defensively. 

“Can’t be. Sirens wouldn’t come this far inland.” Stiles replied, slouched into Scott’s shoulder. “Also, what the hell would a siren be doing in the middle of a  _ forest? _ I was thinking maybe a  _ rusałka _ ? They like cold water and streams. They’re a Polish nymph-pixie thing. A nixie? Nixie’s are a thing, right? I’m pretty sure they are-”

“Stiles.”

Derek’s voice cut through his ramblings, silence falling over the loft. Turning to the Alpha, Stiles eyed him wearily. There was an odd tension in the line of the wolf’s shoulders, as he continued to stare. The silence stretched. 

“You uh, gonna say anything, big guy?”

“I took you off research.” It was like having his head shoved in a toilet cold. Which is an experience that he could thank Jackson for. Being doused in cold water was probably a more appropriate description. 

Derek thought that Stiles looked like he’d been slapped.

“Wha- Well  _ yeah _ , but it’s not like I have anything else to do, being crippled and all.” Stiles waved vaguely at this braced leg. Derek fought a wince at the reminder of Stiles’ injury. “Also, it’s not like anyone else would’ve brought this to you!”

“I took you off research for a reason Stiles.” Derek growled irritatedly, getting to his feet. Stiles stiffened, shame and anxiety flooding his scent. A splotchy blush rose in his cheeks. The pack had gone completely silent, as Derek stalked away from the table. Stiles’ heartbeat ran double time, and the Alpha watched as Peter glared judgmentally from the stairs. Derek knew that the two of them had become close over the last month, as Peter had made it his mission to guilt Derek with updates of Stiles’ slow going human recovery. Glaring back, Derek looked away.

“I know you did,” Stiles started in a small voice, “But aren’t you going to do anything about this?” 

“Even if we did, it wouldn’t be your concern, Stiles. Go home.” Derek dismissed, turning back and plucking the file from Stiles’ hand. The more involved he was, the higher the chance he’d get hurt was.

“But-” Stiles shoved off Scott, until he was standing as close as he could to Derek without support. Which wasn’t particularly close, but Derek could feel the intent wafting off Stiles. “But I can help! That’s my job, I’m supposed to help-”

“You’ve done enough. Lydia can take it from here.” Derek snapped, trying hard to ignore the desperation coming off the teenager in waves. The thought of Stiles desperately begging to be included made something curdle sourly in his gut. “Peter, get him home.”

“Nephew, perhaps-”

“ _ Now. _ ”

Forcing himself to look away, Derek listened as Peter handed the half crutches to the boy, and tugged him towards the door.

“Don’t I even get a thank you?” 

“I said  _ go home _ , Stiles.” Derek growled, turning and flashing his eyes red. Stiles’ tilted his head up in defiance, inadvertently baring his neck. Derek’s wolf howled at the accidental submission, while the human parts of him cringed at the anger clouding the usual scent that Stiles carried. 

“You know what? Fuck you too, Hale. Good luck figuring this out without me.”

The door slammed shut, an oppressive silence sitting uncomfortably over the remaining pack.

With a huff, he walked back over to the table. 

“Really, Derek?” Lydia broke the silence, lips pursed in displeasure.

“Shut up.” Derek snapped. Walking back over to the table, he lent heavily on his palms, before sighing heavily through his nose. “Alright. Let’s set up a patrol and do some recon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall im so sorry for not updating earlier
> 
> also tell me if the perspective swaps get confusing? 
> 
> most my chapters are going to be around 1000 to 1500 words max btw
> 
> thank u for being patient w me!!


	5. waterloo promise to love you forever more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some angst and some fun realisations come into play
> 
> also, himbo scott!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL THANK U FOR STICKING W ME THROUGH THIS

###  CHAPTER 5: waterloo promise to love you forever more

It was getting ridiculous. Watching these two idiots do their odd mating dance - full of snarky insults and wall shoving - had been painful. But seeing Derek purposefully push Stiles away? It was  _ borderline maddening _ . Peter might be a  _ slightly  _ homicidal rage monster every so often, but even he can tell that Derek’s being blatantly obtuse to the heated stares that Stiles shoots his way, how the boy’s eyes linger just a little bit too long sometimes. And Stiles was no better. For all his talk about being able to read their mighty Alpha, he refused to acknowledge the true reasoning behind Derek’s actions.

“My dear nephew -”

“No.”

“But I haven’t even -”

“No, Peter.” With a petulant huff, Peter stalks away from the couch, back to his usual perch on the stairs. “The last time you said ‘dear nephew’, I nearly lost an arm. So,  _ no  _ Peter.”

“Oh you healed, it’s fine.” 

Stiles had gone from righteously furious to tearful in less than a minute, once he had gotten in the car. Peter knew for a fact that the boy was currently swaddled in blankets, watching reruns of  _ Community _ and stuffing his face with “sad boi hours” ice cream and Cheetos, like a newly divorced housewife. Stiles never failed to disgust and impress Peter with how much food he could put away.

The loft was dark, save for the warm lights that flickered on in the kitchen. Derek measured out a teaspoon of tea leaves into each cup, as the kettle bubbled quietly. Tea making had been a calming ritual that Olivia had instilled in Derek after Paige had passed, as a way to centre himself without needing to think about an anchor. Peter watched as the strain in his face slowly eased, a sense of calm and stillness settled over the room. The tightness of his shoulders dropped, breathing coming easier.

“We do have to talk about this, Derek.” Peter murmured quietly, taking the offered cup with a quiet thanks. The heat of the cup seeped into his hands, the wedding ring on his fourth finger beginning to warm at the contact. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Derek was still facing the kitchen island, stirring in a small spoonful of honey. The boy had always had a slight sweet tooth. Sighing, Peter took a deep pull. Of course Derek was going to be difficult about this - he always was when it came to  _ feelings _ . Shuddering slightly at the thought of talking about the aforementioned subject, Peter steeled himself. There was going to be no backing out. Regretfully, he cared deeply about his idiot nephew, and was annoyingly attached to the fragile little human. Thus, it was going to be up to him to fix the mounting catastrophe.

“I know you don’t want to -”

“So why the hell are you trying?” Derek snapped, glaring over his shoulder. Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Peter took another sip, letting the quiet drape over them like a soft shawl. 

“...This is good tea.” 

“I know. Stiles bought it.” Derek replied, staring down into the depths of his golden liquid. Smiling into the lip of the cup, Peter waited as Derek lifted the cup to his face, inhaling slightly, before taking a long sip. 

“He bought the honey too, didn’t he? And the spoons.” Peter mused, reaching for the small, closed jar. Humming, he rolled it on his palm, reading the label. “Russian premium natural buckwheat honey.” Flipping the bottle upside down, Peter let out a low whistle. “This is good stuff.”

“It was a housewarming gift,” Derek replied gruffly. “And since when can you read Russian?”

“ _ Всегда, детеныш. _ ” (read: Always, cub.)

“I’m going to assume that was insulting.” Peter let out a huffed laugh, leaning against the counter. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on Stiles?”

“Normally, yes. But the Sheriff’s home tonight.” It had been a surprising display of maturity on Stiles’ part to decide to tell his father how often Peter had been hanging around. And, just as equally surprisingly, the Sheriff took it in stride and was unabashedly thankful for the wolf’s presence. There had been a shockingly parental conversation between the two, in which they sorted out a schedule of sorts to keep an eye on Stiles, in regards to nights, PT and medication. 

Derek let out an acknowledging hum. The quiet settled once again, both men enjoying their drinks. 

“I’m just trying to keep him safe.” Derek murmured, staring into the middle distance. An emptiness swam in his eyes, sight clouded with the thoughts of loved ones long lost. “He’s fragile. And human.”

“Like Paige.” Derek let out an agreeing hum.  _ At least he knows he isn’t completely devoid of emotion towards Stiles _ , Peter thought drily. “Stiles is more resilient than you think, Derek.”

“He broke his  _ femur!  _ He has months of physical therapy ahead of him that I could’ve prevented!” He growled, slamming the cup down on the island. “The more he’s around, the more hurt he’s going to get. I can’t protect him all the time.” 

  
“Derek-”

“The best I can do is keep him away.” Derek’s shoulders were bunched up as he pushed his palms into the counter. “It’s the best I can do.” He repeated, nodding quietly to himself in reassurance. 

_ And the martyr complex comes into play _ , Peter sighed internally. 

“All you’re doing is hurting him.” Derek flinched, despite the gentleness of Peter’s tone, as he settled a hand on a tight shoulder. “That boy has enough doubts about whether or not he’s pack, there’s no need for you to make it worse.”

Derek blew out an irritated noise. “But-”

“But nothing. We both know that if you don’t keep him close, Stiles is just going to go out and do it himself. And wouldn’t that be so much worse, hm?” 

“I can’t let him get hurt because of me.”

“And if not  _ for _ you, then for the rest of the pack. For friends. For his father.” Peter sighed, pulling his hand away. “This isn’t a choice you can make for him, you know.” Putting the empty cup in the sink, Peter started towards the stairs. He’d sowed the seed of doubt in Derek’s head - it was all he could do for now. 

“He’d die for this pack.” Peter paused. Derek’s quiet words echoed through the loft, less of a declaration, and more of a tentative question without inflection. 

Peter closed his eyes, letting a deep exhale out of his nose. “So make him live for it instead.” The statement was laden with purpose and intent, a gentle nudge to push Derek back towards Stiles. Turning back, Peter glanced over his shoulder. “Stiles has a PT session at five o’clock tomorrow. He’ll be home by twenty past six. Bring Reeses.”

  
  
  


\----

Scott knew that he wasn’t the brightest flower in the bunch. No, that position belonged to Stiles. Stiles was the one who noticed everything, the one who was observant and got things right, on the path to valedictorian. More often than not, Scott found himself watching smart stuff happen from the sidelines, and waited to be ordered around. It wasn’t that Scott disliked it - it was easier sometimes to not have much expected from him. 

The last time he’d been the one to plan, he’d gotten Allison’s mom killed.

So. That summarises why he should never be in charge of anything. 

“I fucking  _ hate _ stairs. I’m serious! I feel like my leg is about to  _ die _ , Scott.” 

“Dude, I did offer to carry you.”

The pack meeting was about to start, and it was obvious that Stiles was nervous. Though Scott’s powers of observation were limited, nearly fifteen years of friendship had its benefits. And so did being able to smell emotions. As Jackson and Stiles threw playground insults at each other, Scott helped Peter put the maps out. “How’s PT going?”

“He’s progressing surprisingly well. Though it would be faster if he would take the bite.” Scott won’t lie and say that he liked Peter - the man had ruined his life, after all. But he’d also given Scott a sense of purpose and Allison. He respected Stiles’ friendship with Peter, but tried not to encourage it - sort of how Stiles didn’t like Chris. Did that make Derek Stiles’ Allison? It wouldn’t be weird per se, but the idea of Stiles kissing Derek was pretty gross - nobody wanted to think about their siblings (well, pseudo siblings) getting it on.

Scott’s brow furrowed. “Stiles likes being human.” Peter sighed, watching as Stiles and Isaac started pelting Jackson with the couch cushions. Lydia had bought them as a housewarming present, along with an assortment of other pretty things. It was weird to think that Derek owned cushions - like seeing a teacher in sleepwear. 

“And the bite is a gift. It should be given with consent.” Scott scoffed, staring at Peter. Peter stared back. “You scoff at me, but if I had been in my right mind I would’ve given you the choice to say no.”

“Yeah, but you would’ve twisted my arm into saying yes.” Peter frowned, irritation written clear on his brow.

“No, Scott, I wouldn’t have. I might be a psychopath sometimes, but consent is important.” Peter looked away first, fussing mindlessly with the pins and string on the map. “I do regret it, and I am sorry, Scott.” Peter murmured, pointedly looking away, heart beating steady and true. Stiles and Peter were similar in that way - both terrible with emotions. Stiles liked to ignore problems until they went away. So did Peter. “You needn’t forgive me - I appreciate you playing nice with me for Stiles’ sake.”

“I’m not playing nice. Stiles likes you, so I  _ tolerate _ you.” Scott went back to watching Stiles. Allison was currently attempting to teach him how to use a fake butterfly knife. Scott snorted as the comb hit Stiles between the eyes, sending him flailing into the couch. “Anyway, it’s not like going insane was your fault.” Peter cocked an eyebrow in true Hale fashion, surprise clear. “Uh, Stiles might’ve explained a bit. About you losing your marbles. So, you’re not forgiven, but I guess you’re okay.” Peter smiled at that.

“Thank you, Scott.” Peter made an aborted move to touch the boy’s shoulder, before thinking better of it. Turning on his heel, Peter walked away from the thick of the pack, sitting to observe the rabble.

When Derek finally came down the stairs, Stiles froze. It was like he’d short-circuited - Stiles.exe has stopped working. Mouth kind of open, eyes wide. Huh, that’s sorta how Stiles says that he looks at Allison. 

And then, smart people stuff began. 

But instead of spending the whole time staring at his girlfriend, Scott’s eyes stayed on Derek. He looked… weird. There was an odd twist in his face, and a sort of intensity in his eyes that he never had except for when he was around Stiles. Sort of like he wanted to sit on him. 

Weird.

As Scott continued to watch while Stiles flailed through what was probably a brilliant presentation that would’ve gone over his head anyway, he realised something. Derek wasn’t just  _ looking _ at Stiles, he was staring. Gaping.  _ Admiring.  _ Derek was seemingly deeply concentrated in what his best friend was saying, but he was watching Stiles’ hands or his mouth and looked mildly pained whenever Stiles had to lean on something to move.

Suddenly, Scott flicked his eyes to Stiles. Stiles, like usual, was watching Derek whenever the Alpha wasn’t looking at him. There was a lot of intense staring, no, deep  _ gazing _ , and lip biting. 

Wait.

_ Wait a fucking second. _

The realisation hit Scott like a lacrosse ball to the nuts, punching a small involuntary noise out of his lungs. Next to him, Isaac gave him a weird look that he ignored. Glancing around frantically (and subtlety, yes Stiles he could be  _ subtle _ , shut up) he searched in the hopes of seeing if someone else had come to the same conclusion. Instead, he got nothing.

Fuck.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Scott wasn’t supposed to notice things so a reason! He would suck at wingmanning Stiles. His romantic experience was limited to what Stiles called “Romeo and Juliet level bullshit”, and definitely not the wooing of a  _ freaking Alpha _ . Oh god. Oh fuck, what the hell.

Out of nowhere, Scott spotted Peter, who was watching back with what seemed like a vague air of amusement. Peter cocked his head towards Derek, then at Stiles, before raising an eyebrow at him.  _ So you figured it out _ , Peter seemed to say. Scott violently stiffly shook his head with vigor, before pinching his lips with wide eyes and jerking his head at Stiles.  _ What the hell, dude! _ Scott tried to emote back. 

“Scott, you good?” Isaac whispered, hand on his shoulder. Scott nodded, not trusting his voice, eyes still trained on Peter. Isaac followed his gaze, before letting out an understanding noise. “Good luck with that.” 

Oh god, his best friend was into their Alpha, and Uncle Bad Touch was the only other person to realise. And bro-code stated that there was no way he could mention it to anyone. It was totally going to be his job to get them together, wasn’t it? Taking a deep breath, Scott pulled back his shoulders, as Stiles flopped back down into him. Staring down at this friend, a sense of determination came over him. He was going to do this. 

How bad could it be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im so sorry it took me so long to update, schools started to head up! I tried to make this one nice an long as compensation
> 
> I'm sorry if my Russian sucks, its legit of google translate. Lemme know if I need to fix it! Also, I have a headcanon that both Peter and Derek are polyglots!! idk if peter actually had a job in canon, but he gives of both the vibes of a professor and a lawyer. I could do something with that. 
> 
> no I didn't add more chapter space, what r u talking abt????


	6. waterloo couldn't escape if I wanted to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a Discussion™ happens.
> 
> also, soup!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy fuck its been a hot minute
> 
> im so sorry yall for not updating for so long - im in the first term of my senior year rn, and im currently in the middle of hell week and a whole bunch of my exams just got fucking shuffled the day before so im kinda stressed BUT i got a notif that someone commented on this one fic and well yeah now we have a new chapter! Thank u for sticking w me :))

“You smell like shit.”

Derek was lent against the doorframe, watching as Stiles startled on the bed, letting out a pained whine as he flopped on the bed. “Ugh, I don’t have time to deal with your bullshit. Begone, wench!” Stiles threw out an arm, before it flopped back down on the bed. Frowning, Derek stared at the moles on the back of Stiles’ head, as he groaned face down on the crumpled blanket. Even though he’d grown the buzzcut out, it was still cropped closely enough to the base of his skull that Derek could still see a faint smattering of freckles across his head. “I’ll shower once I can feel my legs without wanting to cry.” Stiles raised his head at Derek’s lack of response, letting out a grumpy “What?” at Derek’s raised eyebrows. 

“Take some painkillers and shower.”

“Can’t,” Stiles groaned, dropping his head down on the comforter. “I threw them out.” Huffing, Derek stalked out of the room, heading into the kitchen. The cupboards were stacked full with food, mainly low-fat, low-sugar crap. Derek sighed, hanging his jacket on the back of the couch. The stairs creaked quietly under his gentle tread, as he headed into the hallway bathroom. 

Turning the tap on, he filled the bath with steaming water, swirling in a citrus-y soap that smelt like Stiles. To be honest, the entire room smelled almost entirely like Stiles, from the clean towels to the dry washcloth. The scent filled his lungs, leaving him lightheaded and oddly relaxed. Derek waited until the room became hazy with steam and the mirror fogged, before stopping the water. The image reflected back was warped, smudges of black and grey on a faded white background. 

Looking away, Derek walked back to Stiles’ room. The boy lay crumpled on the bed, curled in on himself. “Up.”

“Uh no.” Stiles replied, face smooshed into the pillow. “There is nothing you could bribe me with. Not even curly fries.” Rolling onto his back, Derek met Stiles’ tired eyes. “Even threatening me with no Scott wouldn’t do it.” Confusion creased the wolf’s brow. “Ugh, I never thought the day that I’d prefer Creeperwolf over Sourwolf would happen. Sorry Alpha oh mine, you’ve been demoted. Peter is so much better at this than you.” Frowning, Derek trudged over to Stiles, squatting down next to his feet. 

“Uh… Derek?” Unlacing Stiles’ shoes, Derek gently eased them off. 

“Strip.”

“What the fu- Dude no!”

“Keep your underwear on.”

After a considerable amount of protest and flailing, Derek managed to get a mostly nude Stiles to the bathroom. 

“Is that… a bubble bath?” 

“No, it’s a pool of acid.” Stiles meeped. Refraining from the temptation of rolling his eyes, Derek continued, “Yes, you moron, it’s a bath.”

“But it has bubbles!” Stiles flailed vaguely in the direction of the bath. “I didn’t even know that you even  _ knew _ what bubbles where!” Succumbing to the desire, Derek rolled his eyes this time. 

“I did have a childhood.” At that a quiet awkwardness settled over the bathroom, Stiles leaning stiffly against Derek. Internally chastising himself, Derek pushes Stiles towards the bath. “Get in.”

Stiles eased in with a high whine, sighing as he relaxed in the milky water. Derek told himself that the heat building in his face was to do with the steam, and not at all about the fabric of Stiles’ dark briefs, though mostly hidden by the bubbles, still left what seemed like miles of pale but nicked skin on display. Sitting on the closed toilet seat, he watched as Stiles slipped under the water, until only the top of his hair was unsubmerged. Slowly, he reemerged, chin rippling the citrus-y water, eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you gonna leave?”

“No.”

“Uh, how about this - leave.”

“No.” Derek sighed. “If I leave, you’ll do something stupid and hurt yourself.”

“No I won’t!” Derek raised a judgemental eyebrow. “Okay so I might, but I promise I won’t!” Stiles conceded. “I’ll shout if I need anything?” He needled, heartbeat steady and true. With a grunt of assent, Derek stalked out of the bathroom.

\---

Eventually, a very pruny Stiles lifted himself out of the bathtub, and stumbled into his bedroom. The sun had nearly set, final glowing beams sneaking across the ceiling. The smell of something tomato-y drifted through the open door, as Stiles groaned at the hunger gnawing in his gut. He’d learnt the hard way not to eat more than a little bit of fruit before PT.

Vomit and sweat were  _ not _ a good combo. 

“I told you to call me if you needed anything.”

Stiles groaned again, face hidden in the folds of the clean sheet. “Did you change my freaking sheets?”

“Yes.” the bed dipped under Derek’s weight. “They smelt disgusting.”

“That,” Stiles stated empathetically, rolling clumsily onto his back, “Is a goddamned  _ invasion of privacy _ , Creeperwolf. I changed them like, last week!”

“I thought I was Sourwolf.” Derek mused, a warm hand wrapping around Stiles’ slim ankle. Stiles let out a moan of relief, as dark grey lines twisted up the corded muscle of Derek’s forearm. “This feels better than when Peter does it,” Stiles sighed, eyes closed and face lax with bliss. “And the designation of Creeperwolf is not permanent - it is a label that indicates that the aforementioned werewolf is being creepy and invasive. Hence, you, my dear Alpha, are the Creeperwolf.”

Derek hummed, rubbing his thumb gently over the fragile tendons. Handing Stiles a thermos full of a sweet-smelling tomato soup and a grilled cheese, Derek replied, “I prefer Sourwolf.”

“I don’t care.”

“Do you want me to stop pain draining you?” Derek teased, snorting as Stiles verbally flailed his apologies. 

Eventually, after Stiles finished eating, a gentle lull settled over the two of them. Derek flicked through a random book balanced on the bedside table, focused on the gentle huff of Stiles’ quiet breathing. The vanilla sweet smell of contentment wafted through the room, coating the back of Derek’s mouth and tongue, cloy and light. He’d pulled all of Stiles’ pain, but kept his fingers wrapped lightly around his ankle, enjoying the softness of his skin against the pads of his fingers. The sun had disappeared a while ago, the small lamp on the nightstand glowing a soft yellow. The planes of Stiles’ face were cut sharply with shadows, pale skin dotted with dark moles. The curve of his nose was pressed into his pillow, his pink lips parted and dry, skin flaked from the cold dryness of winter. There was a kind of odd beauty to his stillness - even in sleep, Stiles was always moving.

“So… is it a  _ rusałka _ ?”

Groaning internally, Derek resisted the urge to thump his head back against the wall. And to think he’d been enjoying the quiet. “That doesn’t concern you.” 

“Okay, but it kinda does?” Stiles frowned, pushing up onto his elbows. “I get that they’re your pack, but they're my friends.” Derek sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, a flair of irritation swelling. “I told you to stay out of it, isn’t that enough? You’ve gotten injured already - you’re the pack’s weak spot.” 

“ _ Excuse me? _ ” An indignant flush was beginning to climb up Stiles’ neck, a bitter sort of anger swimming in his eyes. “Yeah, blame the weak human, Derek. Really nice! I’ve saved your dumbass _ more _ than once!” Stiles was heaving, yelling directly into Derek’s face. “I get that I’m not pack but-”

“It’s not about that-”

“Then what the  _ fuck _ is it about?” A sour desperation coloured his voice, the burning stink of anger and anxiety smothering Stiles. Derek repressed a whine. “Because I don’t fucking know what I’m doing wrong! I research for you, I try my  _ fucking _ hardest to keep everybody alive and I fuck up once and now I’m not good enough for you? Huh? Is  _ that _ what it is, you asshole?!” 

It wasn’t uncommon for Derek and Stiles to argue - over couch space, over what the monster of the week, over Derek’s saviour complex, over snacks and movies. You name it, they’ve had a bitchfest over it. But never,  _ ever _ over Stiles’ position in the pack. In Derek’s mind, Stiles sat at Derek’s left - a left hand, an emissary and, maybe one day, a mate. He had always made it clear to the pack that Stiles outranked all of them. 

But had he made it clear to Stiles?

_ “That boy has enough doubts about whether or not he’s pack, there’s no need for you to make it worse.” _

Sighing again, Derek, pushed Stiles flat onto the bed, ignoring his surprised squawk. “You’ve always been pack, Stiles.” 

“But-”

“Will you shut up.”

“Question marks, Derek. They’re a useful grammatic tool.” Stiles quietened down at the scathing glare shot his way. Despite his teasing words, Stiles’ still held a certain air of apprehension. The splotchy blush that had risen across his face in anger had begun to fade from a violent red to a healthy, soft pink flush. Stiles was looking up from beneath his thick lashes, soft brown eyes wide and confused. His tongue darted out, moistening his cracked lips, leaving them bitten and glossy and slick. 

_ Breathe, Derek,  _ his brain chastised, forcing him to focus on a random spot on the pillow, instead of how his hand was still wrapped around Stiles’ thin ankle. Irritatingly, his internal monologue sounded suspiciously like Peter. 

“You’ve always been pack. “ He repeated, before looking away, licking his drying lips. If Stiles’ had been a wolf, he would've been able to smell the anxiety drifting off him. “Even since Scott was bit - Scott saw you as a brother, and my wolf,  _ I _ , recognised that.” 

“So… I’m pack adjacent?”

Was it really too much for Stiles to just listen to him for once? “No, you moron, I _just said_ that you’re pack. Fuck, even more so now. I-” It felt too daunting to admit that Stiles was his left hand and emissary. Too real. 

Despite the warmth of the room, Derek shivered. Perhaps it was in anticipation, in a reaction to the odd tenseness that had settled over the two of them. “When I was a kid. The pack. Before-” He stopped haltingly, closing his eyes. Derek sucked in a deep breath. He could do this. 

A slender, calloused hand slipped over his wrist, warm and heavy. Opening his eyes, he stared down at the point of contact, knowing that Stiles was closely watching his face, leaned up to face him. Stiles’ thumb rubbed small circles into his skin, a soft comfort. “Half of them- they were human. Laura- Lauras’ mate-” It was as if floodgates had opened, and Derek couldn’t stop the words tumbling out of his mouth. “My older brother, Philip, and Peter’s wife, and kids and my- my dad,  _ god my, my dad- _ ” A wet sob wrenched unbidden out of Derek’s mouth. The hand on his wrist tightened, almost to the point of painful, as he pulled himself together. It had never gotten easier to talk about his family, and at this point, it seemed as if it never would. “My- my pack wasn’t… just  _ pack _ , Stiles. I grew up with them, and I watched them get hurt and not  _ heal- _ ” Looking up, he was met with Stiles’ shining eyes, mouth tight with grief. Derek knew that he probably didn’t look much better, face damp with tears, hot with emotion. “They were family too,” Stiles whispered, a flash of understanding jolting across his face. “You- you just don’t want me getting hurt, holy  _ shit, you care about me! _ ” 

Derek flinched. Letting go of Stiles’s ankle, he began to pull away, knowing that his expression was shuttering. 

“No, no no no _ -ho _ you don’t!” Stiles’ hand slipped off his wrist, grabbing tightly at Derek’s hand. Derek stilled, the unblemished skin of his hand rubbing against Stiles’ callouses, long earnt from his years of Lacrosse. His eyes stayed pointedly away from Stiles, swallowing drily. “Hey.” Stiles’ voice was soft, as he tugged at Derek's hand. “Hey, look at me.” Derek stubbornly shook his head, face blank but aflame with embarrassment, feeling oddly like a petulant child. “Then listen to my heart okay?” Derek squeezed Stiles’ hand in acknowledgement. “Okay.” Stiles took a steadying breath. “Firstly, I’m… honoured that you think of me as family, dude. It’s kinda always just been Dad and I, then Scott and his mom, but now it’s sorta everyone else too, yknow?” A small smile twitched on Derek’s face. “Secondly, I’m not going to judge you for having emotions.”

“You always call me grumpy.” Derek grumbled. Stiles snorted, mouth quirking. “Dude, you’re a middle child. Not only does that explain  _ so much _ about you, but you know that I’m teasing you, right?” The tension that once felt stretched tight across the room began to loosen. “Thirdly, I get that you want to protect me, but how’d you think I feel, knowing that you’re going out there and putting yourself in danger?”

“I heal.”

“Yeah, well so do I!”

“But you won’t!” Derek roared suddenly, anger bright in his eyes. “I can break over and over again and I’ll be fine, but  _ you won’t _ . This isn’t me calling you weak, it’s me not wanting you to die!” Stiles sat stunned, mouth dropped the tiniest bit open. “This pack won’t survive if you die. You’re it’s fucking glue! Scott won’t stick around, there’ll be nobody to keep the betas in line, Jackson will fuck off to god knows where and Lydia will follow and fuck if I know what Peter will do! Scott would never forgive me, and what about your dad, huh? Fuck, what about me?!” Derek’s voice was loud and desperate, scratchy with emotion. “God, I don’t even want to fucking think about it, Stiles. I’d probably lose it worse than Peter did.” A bitter laugh filled the room. “Stiles, look at me.” Eyes meeting, Derek knelt next to the bed, gripping Siles’ hands. “You’re more than just a fucking researcher, you hear me?” Rising, Derek walked over to the window, climbing onto the roof. Glancing back, Derek watched as Stiles continued to stare, eyes wide, eyebrows high, mouth gaping. Sighing, he leapt off the roof, feet thudding in the snow as he walked to the Camaro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thank u for keeping up w this fic!! Uh, i thrive off comments and kudos, if u dont mind!
> 
> next up: himbo scott!


	7. (coda) waterloo knowing my fate is to be with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Scott have an interesting conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey sorry, i know its been a while since I've uploaded - exams are done, the first weeks of holidays where hectic. 
> 
> I know this chapter is really short, but it's just a coda! I'll try and get some stuff out asap. This might end up being stretched to 10 chapters bc of the coda. 
> 
> OH THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE FIC BUT: There was a tiktok that I saw that basically was like "I'm a terrible fanfic reader bc I always end up speculating about the writer. like 'oh an OC? her names Melissa? Is thatur friend??'" 
> 
> basically - do yall have assumptions abt me?? IM CUROUS

“You have to help.”

To be perfectly honest, Peter was not expecting to have this conversation in the middle of a grocery store. Linguini in one hand and penne in the other, Peter, blinked at Scott, who was rather strangely, holding a tub of strawberry yogurt to his chest like a shield. “Also, Stiles doesn’t like penne.”

“What makes you think I’m shopping for Stiles?” Peter asked, dropping the linguini into the basket. Derek wasn’t getting enough white meat in his diet - perhaps chicken piccata? Maybe fajitas. Hm…

Scott fidgeted, staring at Peter as he walked towards the meat cooler isle. “I know that you know, and I know that  _ you know _ that I _ know, _ so you  _ have _ to help!” Gesturing his emphasis every time he repeated himself, Scott stared wide-eyed and desperate at Peter. Bringing the package of chicken legs to his nose, Peter inhaled. The smell of old and borderline stale made his nose crinkle, as he dropped the package into the pile. Trying again unsuccessfully, Peter grabbed a box of breasts. It never failed to disgust him, how little humans seemed to care about what they put in their bodies. “Chicken flavoured.” Peter mused, considering the carton of stock. “ _ Flavoured _ . What kind of animal needs to be killed for something to be animal  _ flavoured _ , for God’s sake?” 

“Dude, what are you doing?” Scott asked, inching towards the freezer. “Are- are you  _ smelling _ the meat?  _ Why? _ ” 

“Smelling for rot, my dear beta.” Peter replied with a smile. “If you really need help playing cupid, perhaps some Barry Manilow and mood lighting, hm?” 

“Not your beta.” Scott grumbled, following as Peter turned into the next aisle. “Also, who’s Barry Manilow?” Stopping sharply, Peter spun to face Scott.

“Who- Who is Barry Manilow? You’re kidding.” Peter stated flatly, as Scott twitched uncomfortably. 

“Uh...no?” 

“The man who wrote some of the greatest love songs of all time.  _ Mandy _ ?  _ Copacabana _ ?” Scott stared with a confused blankness, until Peter sighed, placing a carton of Cinnamon Crunch into the basket. “I can’t  _ believe _ that I bit you.” 

“Does this mean you’re not gonna help me?” God, Peter was going to hyperventilate if he kept sighing. “Because I’d totally ask Lydia for help, but I don’t think she knows and I can’t just  _ tell _ her because  _ bro-code  _ and I don’t know how to  _ romance _ , I just kinda do whatever Stiles tells me to and I’m pretty sure he’s getting all his cues from  _ Ferris Buller’s Day Off  _ and  _ 10 Things I Hate About You _ , because there’s only so many times I can Allison to the ice-rink and she’s totally cool about it but-”

“And everyone always says that Stiles is the talkative one.” Peter interrupts, an amused smirk tilting his mouth. “Well,’ he stated contemplatively, internally weighing the odds, “those boys wouldn’t know mood lighting even if it hit them in the face.”

Peter hadn’t planned to get involved in Derek’s love life, especially seeing as the last time it ended in the death of a fourteen-year-old girl, then the subsequent death-by-fire of both his family and his pack. It would be better if he just let Scott try.

But.

Scott was an idiot.

“If we are going to do this,” Peter began, watching Scott closely, “You are going to have to do what I say, without question. Understood?”

Scott shifted, obviously weighing the odds in his head. A slow smirk began to spread across his face, as he put his hand out. “Only if you shake on it.” Peter returned the smile, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he slipped their hands together in a rough shake. 

_ This should be interesting.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heres the pasta recipe that Peter mentioned: https://www.delish.com/cooking/recipe-ideas/recipes/a49300/chicken-piccata-pasta-recipe/
> 
> I haven't tried it but it looks good!
> 
> and this entire coda is a fat reference to 'Werewolf Love Songs Vol. 1' by aggybird which can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663460

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! Please leave a comment!!


End file.
